Down for the Count
by Arlene
Summary: The rest of the team inadvertantly gets caught up in Tim's personal problem


By Arlene

Disclaimer: The characters are owned by DC. Not mine, never will be. No money was made from this piece of fiction.

Down for the Count

By Arlene

Careful not to disturb his roommate, Timothy Drake quietly slipped through the window. He had felt a little off during patrol; his timing had slowed down, his kicks and punches weren't as effective as they could've been. His body was still aching from the fighting. Perhaps he just needed some rest. He silently wished he had some water to alleviate his scratchy throat. Yelling to get the thug's attention hadn't been the smartest thing he'd ever done, but it had worked, and that was all that mattered. He crawled into bed. The last conscious thought he had was how badly he was going to fail the math test in the morning.

Just as he drifted off to sleep, an annoying beeping roused him. Hm, he must've set the alarm for the wrong time. Without bothering to peek out from under the covers, he reached out with his arm and kept whacking the top of the clock until he hit the snooze button. After a thought, he flicked the "off" switch. He really needed to fix the settings. In the morning. After he got some sleep. He was so tired left his arm out. With his limb still resting on top of the clock, he tried going back to sleep.

Just as he drifted off to sleep yet again, he felt himself being shaken. "Oh, fer cryin' out loud!" he croaked with his blanket over his head, "What is it now?!"

"Master Timothy," Alfred's serene voice replied, "if you do not get up soon, you will be late for class."

Tim's response was only to burrow deeper into his bed. "I just got in, Al. I didn't even get to sleep yet." He was feeling extremely whiny this morning.

"On the contrary, young sir, you've been asleep for about six hours." As the old gentleman took hold of Tim's still outstretched arm to replace it on the bed, he noticed that it felt rather clammy. Having already raised two boys, he was starting to recognize a few signs. "Master Timothy, are you feeling well this morning?"

Tim lowered the blanket from his head, blinking at the sunlit room. "Uh, now that you mention it, I'm actually feeling kinda hot. Wow, it's bright in here. Could you turn off the light? I'm getting a headache." He rubbed his temples and kicked off the blanket. Boy, he felt like he was burning up.

Alfred looked critically at the boy's flushed face. He bent down and felt his forehead. Tim sighed with relief at Alfred's cool touch.

"Master Timothy, I believe you're ill. You've a fever." Alfred began rearranging the blanket back around the boy.

Tim sat up anyway. He felt dizzy and slightly light-headed. "But I've got a math test today," he mumbled. 

"Well, it shall have to wait." His voice became stern. "Lie back down and get some rest. I shall inform your teacher." Knowing how stubborn his boys could be, especially when sick, he was prepared for a struggle.

"Okay," Tim acquiesced weakly, lying back down. Sitting up at the moment wasn't much fun anyway. Satisfied, Alfred left the room.

How had he gotten sick? He hadn't been gassed, pricked, injected or drugged by anything last night, and he always cleaned up after a patrol. He was always careful about handling blood and tissue samples. 

Then it hit him. Wesley. He'd been sick the previous week and kept sneezing and coughing all over everything. Ew. Wes should've stayed in the infirmary, but nooo, it was just a cold, he'd said. He'll be all right, he'd said. It's nothing, he said. You don't mind, do you, Tim, he'd said. Tim really did mind, but he decided that he had annoyed Wesley enough and had tried to be nice about it. And this was how he got repaid. He snorted to himself. Well, sorry Wes, no more Mr. Nice Guy.

There was a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," he rasped. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Come in."

The door opened, and Alfred led Dean Nederlander into the room. The Dean took a glance at Tim. He'd seen enough sick boys in his time to recognize when it was being faked. "I'm sorry, you're right, Mr. Pennyworth. I was wondering about all of his absences and early departures, but it seems as if it's legitimate this time." 

"Quite all right, sir. Master Timothy is quite prone to illness." He thought back to the Contagion and the Clench disasters.

"Perhaps he should stay in the infirmary." Tim's eyes widened. He was sure he had some bruises from the previous night's fighting. If the nurse discovered them, how would he explain them?

Thinking along the same lines, Alfred replied, "Sir, may I point out that his roommate, Master Wesley, did not stay in the infirmary while he was ill?"

"Yes, well, Wesley did not have a fever. I believe Timothy's sickness might be more serious." 

"Uh, Dean Nederlander? If it's all right, could I stay with Alfred? I-I would rather be with someone I knew." He tried his puppy eyes, and with his flushed cheeks, he looked pitiful indeed. The man never had a chance. 

The Dean sighed. "Very well. I'll ask the nurse to check in on you, then we'll see." He left to retrieve the woman.

Alfred held out a glass of water. Tim blinked. Had he been holding that all along? Why hadn't Tim noticed? He took the glass gratefully and drank half of it. "Thanks, Alfie," he coughed out, forgetting how much the older man detested the name.

"You're quite welcome, young sir." Alfred moved around the room to pack some of Tim's personal items.

A short time later, the nurse, a matronly woman dressed in a white, starched uniform, bustled into the room. She took Tim's temperature and tsked over the triple digits displayed on the thermometer. She addressed Alfred. "The Dean said that Timothy wants to stay with you." Alfred nodded. She went on, "Well, if that's the case then . . ." She went on for fifteen more minutes, lecturing him about properly taking care of sick boys. Alfred stood in his place and politely listened, nodding and saying "yes" at the appropriate times. He tried not to show his impatience. 

As the woman droned on, Tim's attention wondered. He counted the number of times the nurse said "and" until he got bored. He thought about his math test, which he was missing. He thought about what had happened last night and why he had performed so poorly. He wondered what Wonder Girl's next costume would look like. He wondered what Susie was doing in the Cave right at that moment . . . and he suddenly realized that this was probably how Bart felt during a YJ meeting. His concentration was so shot that he didn't even notice when the nurse had left. His robe suddenly appeared in front of him. Confused, he just looked at it.

Alfred helped him out of bed and wrapped the garment around the boy. "Good heavens, that woman could try the patience of a saint." He picked up a small knapsack and opened the door. "Come along, young sir."

Tim put on his slippers and shuffled out into the hallway, feeling like he just wanted to shrink into himself. When did moving become so uncomfortable? He waited as Alfred closed the door and led the way to his own quarters. The material of the robe felt like steel wool over his sensitive skin. 

Suddenly, his stomach lurched. Oh no. Quicker than he thought he could possibly move, he ran into the bathroom, locked the stall and vomited into the toilet bowl. On his knees, he continued retching until his stomach was empty and he was dry-heaving. With shaky hands, he used some toilet paper to wipe away the tears caused by the straining and to blow his nose. Then he sat on the floor and leaned against the metal wall, savoring the coolness against his back. He tried not to think about what he had just flushed down the toilet. When he felt his legs were steady enough to hold him, he left the stall. Next to the sink was a glass of water, a tube of toothpaste and Tim's toothbrush. Good old Alfie. He rinsed his mouth out and brushed his teeth thoroughly. 

Feeling even worse than he had when climbing through his window earlier, he finally stumbled out of the bathroom. Alfred wrapped an arm around Tim's slumped shoulders and let the miserable boy lean on him. He squeezed gently, giving him a slight hug. "Come, my boy," he said soothingly. "Let's get you to bed, eh?" As they made their way to Alfred's room, Tim clung to the older man more for comfort than support. He resisted the urge to burst out in tears in case any of the guys came by. Thinking about how he'd look clinging to a butler and bawling like a baby, he decided he didn't care.

Mercifully, they made it to Alfred's door before he actually did start crying. While he was guided into the room, a thought struck him. "But where're you going to sleep, Alfred?" he asked, stopping short of the bed.

Touched by Tim's concern, Alfred merely smiled. He turned down the covers and ushered the unresisting patient into bed. "Old men such as I do not require sleep, young man. Just ask Master Bruce."

Still wearing his robe, Tim crawled into the welcoming bed. Shivering, he curled into a tight ball in an effort to keep in as much body heat as he could. Before, he'd felt hot and stifled in his own bed. Now, he felt as though he'd never be warm again. Alfred tucked the blankets around him. For an instant, he felt like a little child. He relaxed a bit, knowing that Alfred would take care of him and that everything would be better. "Thanks, Alfie," he said in a small, sleepy voice. "I love you." Exhausted from the vomiting and the sickness, he fell asleep immediately.

Alfred tenderly brushed his hand over the boy's sweaty forehead. The lad probably wasn't aware of what he had just said. "And I you, Timothy," he whispered. He pulled down the shade to darken the room and left to pick up some medication.

***

Tim was gently awoken and given some pills. Not bothering to open his eyes, he swallowed them along with some deliciously cool water and went back to sleep.

He dreamt he was being chased by a giant beeping wheel of cheese towards a sea of tuna casserole. The rational part of Tim's mind knew that he was dreaming because in real life, cheese didn't beep. He also knew that he needed to wake up. Something beeping meant something important. The other part of his mind wanted to go back to sleep, and the rest of his body agreed. He ignored the soft beeping, hoping that it would see that he wasn't interested and stop. But the noise persisted. Forgetting where he was and how differently everything was arranged, he scooted to the edge of the bed and flung out his arm, hoping to whack his clock's snooze button. Instead, his arm connected with thin air, and he tumbled painfully onto the floor. He stared at the ceiling, stunned. 

Now the beeping sounded as if it were mocking him. The rational part of his mind told him to find the beeping, answer it and go back to sleep. The other part of his mind was angry and wanted to go on a search and destroy mission. Still slightly loopy from the medication, he concurred with the latter part. He blearily went through all of his electronic equipment: Bat pager, regular pager, Oracle earpiece, back up earpiece, Bat wrist communicator, back up wrist communicator, Bat cell phone, regular cell phone, laptop for schoolwork, laptop for "other" work, hand-held electric organizer, Bat chronometer, regular wristwatch, remote-controlled explosive devices. There was now a pile of battery-operated gadgets in the middle of Alfred's floor. But the beeping continued. He closed his eyes and listened carefully, wavering slightly on his feet. Finally recognizing the tone, he groaned. His YJ communicator. He restrained the urge to smack himself on the head, since it would only make his headache worse. If he had only listened more closely in the first place . . . He dug it out from Alfred's closet.

"What?!" he growled. The combination of his scratchy throat and bad mood made his voice unrecognizable.

"Eep!" It sounded like Bart. Low muttering in the background could be heard. Bart had forgotten to take his finger off the button. "Um, uh, Batman? C-can I, I mean, m-may I speak to Robin. Please?" Bart made the request slowly and was very careful to enunciate each word, hoping that he didn't tick off the Bat.

Tim held on to the device and stumbled back into bed. At another time, the misunderstanding would've amused him, but right now, he was just irritated. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, Bart?" 

"Oh, hey, Rob!" Bart replied cheerfully. Then he lowered his voice. "Uh, is *he* still there?"

"No, Batman's not with me. What's up?" Tim didn't bother to set Bart straight about the mix up. He lay back down and pulled the blanket up to his chin, already feeling chilly despite still wearing his robe.

"What's up?" Superboy's voice now. "I'll tell ya what's up. You're late!" he crowed. Tim flinched at the Kid's whooping and moved the communicator farther away from his ear. "I actually got here before Robin the Wonder Boy!"

What? A meeting? Tim looked around for a clock. Oops. He'd totally forgotten about it. "Oh, uh, sorry guys, I can't make it. I'm sorry I didn't let you know earlier. It slipped my mind."

In the Justice Cave, the assembled team looked at each other worriedly. Number one, Robin had apologized twice. Number two, Robin never forgot anything. Number three, he sounded a little different. Was this really Robin? How could they tell?

Tim heard more mumbling. Bart really had to remember to release the talk button. Before they could go any further, he interrupted. "Uh, guys? It's really me, Al." He grimaced at having to use the false name.

Secret spoke up now. "Robin? Are you okay? You sound strange."

No, I'm not okay, he wanted to tell them, my tummy's doing flip-flops, and I'm as sick as a dog. Of course, that wouldn't sound too professional, especially coming from someone associated with Batman. He began uncertainly. "Uh, well . . ."

She gasped in realization. "Are you undercover?" she whispered. The background noise stopped, meaning either they were all listening or Bart finally took his finger off the button.

Tim was too tired to think of another excuse. He looked at the blanket. "Yeah, sure. I'm undercover." Well, he wasn't lying. He noticed the doorknob starting to turn. He needed to wrap this up quickly. "Look, don't call me unless it's an emergency. A real big one. I gotta go. Aw, sh--" Before he could complete his sentence, his transmission was cut off.

Hearing the panic in Rob's voice, Bart jumped to conclusions. "Is he in trouble? Didhegetcaught?"

Wonder Girl began to pace. "We've got to do something. I think we must've made him break his cover when we called."

Kon-El felt partially responsible because of how loudly he had spoken at first. "You're right, Cass. If he's in a jam, Young Justice is going to save him."

Cassie kept pacing. "Okay, but how do we find him? I mean, we can't just ask him where he is right now."

Agitated, Susie floated over to the computer consul. "All we have to do is track down where his transmission came from. We've seen Robin do it millions of times." She was about to push a button and paused with her hand hovering above the keyboard. "Um, does anybody know how to work this?"

Everyone in the room looked at each other. Then they all looked at the floor. Superboy took command. "Look, it's night. Batguys come out at night. Imp, go to Gotham and check on Rob." He looked pleased at his simple plan.

Bart stood eerily still. "But *he'll* know," he said in a hushed voice. He didn't dare speak the name aloud, but they knew who he meant anyway. The Batman.

"Great Hera." Cassie sat down abruptly. "What if we got Rob in trouble with Batman?"

Susie paled noticeably, even for her. "Ohmigosh! I hope he's with some criminals."

***

Knowing how much Alfred disapproved of swearing, Tim stopped himself from completing his sentence. He smiled weakly. "Sorry about the mess, Al." He put the communicator on the nightstand. "There was a YJ meeting, and I forgot to tell them I couldn't make it."

The old gentleman nodded understandingly and stooped to clean the floor. "Don't worry, young sir. Compared to some of Master Dick's messes, this is quite orderly. As for the meeting, there were more pressing matters to occupy you." Tim was about to get out of bed and help when Alfred gave him The Look. "Stay in bed, Master Tim, and please take your medicine." Finding the pills on the nightstand, Tim obeyed. He looked at the bottle. Tylenol PM. No wonder why he kept feeling so drowsy.

Finished with tidying the room, Alfred gingerly sat on the bed and felt Tim's forehead. "Hm, you're still a bit warm. How are you feeling now?"

"Better, but I'm still kinda dizzy."

"Are you hungry?"

"A little. But I'd rather not eat in case I hafta, y'know . . ." 

"Ah, well, you needn't worry about that. The Dean spoke to me while you slept. It seems there was a case of food poisoning. Roughly a fourth of the school's population has been affected. Emptying the contents of your stomach was the best way to speed your recovery." Alfred looked thoughtful. "The Dean was most solicitous. The poor man must be scrambling to avoid lawsuits that might arise from the incident."

Tim's eyes widened. "Great. Now I've gotta watch my back on the streets *and* in the cafeteria." He rubbed his eyes. "I can't think straight. What'd I eat yesterday?"

"You needn't worry about that now. Perhaps you'd like to freshen up a bit before going back to sleep?" Tim nodded, and Alfred helped him out of bed. 

In the bathroom, an extra towel, a spare set of pajamas and his toiletries were laid out for him. He was done in about fifteen minutes, and he admitted that he felt much better, if still a little tired. Upon entering the bedroom again, he noticed that the bed sheets had been changed, and the pillow had been switched for the one from his own room. He laughed out loud when he saw the stuffed Crocky doll tucked in between the sheets. Good old Alfie. Tim flopped down on the bed, covered himself with the blanket and clutched the toy. Smiling, he fell asleep.

***

Kon took a deep breath. "Look, I think Rob's in trouble, and he probably needs help. Just go, Imp, and we'll start flying over. Meet us halfway." He and the girls headed towards the hanger for the Supercycle.

Impulse was still upset about the plan. "Oh sure," he grumbled under his breath, "send Bart out 'cuz he's the fastest. The Bat will never know. 'Shyeah right." He was gone the next instant.

For the next few minutes, Bart Allen was a busy boy. While searching for Robin, he got distracted by stopping robberies in progress, a couple of purse snatchings and a gang war. For the last one, he simply took everyone's weapons and knocked the people flat on their backs. The police arrived while the gang members were recovering. 

Nearing the docks, Bart saw a man wearing a half black and half white suit hold a gun to a nicely-dressed man's head. The man in the weird suit flipped a coin. Speeding by, Bart took away the gun and snatched the coin in mid-air (it was shiny!). Before the bad guy could react, Bart found some rope and wound it around him like a cocoon. A stunned Nightwing watched from the shadows, then smiled when the shaggy-haired boy slowed down enough to be recognized.

Vibrating through a building, Impulse spotted a smiling white-faced man in a purple jacket threatening a bunch of people with a time bomb. His ladyfriend was holding leashes to two hyenas. Bart disassembled the bomb and using the leashes with the hyenas still attached, he tied up the bad man and the lady. 

Batman paused in launching a batarang. His eyes narrowed. It was that Allen boy. Although he was grateful for the assist, he wasn't about to admit it. He contacted his junior partner.

Bart headed towards the designated meeting place. Darn, no Robin. And Gotham was such a boring town.

***

At the beep, Tim rolled over and sighed, "Not again," in his sleep. Alfred intercepted Batman's transmission. "Sir?" he whispered, careful not to disturb the slumbering young man.

"I just saw Impulse in Gotham. Where's Robin?" Alfred summarized the day's events. "I believe they're just worried about him, Sir. He didn't fully explain the situation."

Batman grunted. "I see. I'll deal with it. Out." Batman decided to handle the situation delicately. After all, the Allen boy just gave him a reason to get to bed earlier. He tapped into the Young Justice communicator frequency and growled, "Robin's busy. He'll call later." He broke contact and dealt with the Joker and Harley Quinn.

***

When Impulse heard Batman's voice come out from nowhere, he yelped and ran straight up into a tree, trying to hide himself in the leaves. *He* knew! Whimpering, he hugged a branch tightly, not caring about the splinters.

***

When the rest of team heard Batman's voice, the Supercycle lurched in the air, sentient enough to be intimidated by Batman's tone. Its three occupants jumped in their seats, nearly sending themselves flying out of the vehicle. If the Bat saw Imp, that meant Bart probably told him it was all Superboy's idea. Kon gulped. He knew how much the Bat hated outsiders in his city. The Batman wouldn't actually hunt him down to "talk" to him, would he? 

"Ah, well, I guess," the Boy of Steel stammered, "I guess Rob's fine. 'Cuz, y'know, Batman said he'll call later. So, so, let's go back, 'kay?" The more distance between them and Gotham, the better. Everyone nodded, too afraid to speak. They were worried that *he* might be listening. Geesh. How did Rob stand it?

After they landed back at the Cave, Cassie and Kon went back to their respective homes, not really in the mood to hang out. Bart, who had been forgotten, stayed in his tree. Max Mercury found him through the tracking device built into his YJ communicator and managed to coax him down by promising to leave the nightlight on.

***

Tim abruptly woke up, feeling refreshed and almost like his old self. Checking the clock, he found that it was almost twenty-four hours ago that he had crawled through his dorm window. He silently got up and went to the bathroom to relieve himself. Making his way back to bed, he noticed Alfred dozing in a chair that he had brought with him from Wayne Manor. An opened book lay on his lap, and a cold cup of tea sat on a table next to him. Careful not to wake the older man, Tim took the book and gently put it on the table. Then he removed the afghan that had been spread atop the bed and covered the sleeping man who was like a grandfather to him. "Thanks, Alfie," he whispered, "I love you." He went back to bed and tried to dream about Crocky beating up the Joker with a foam bat.

End


End file.
